


Let it Out

by smoth



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoth/pseuds/smoth
Summary: Smith comes to the realisation that dream jobs, good salaries and running away from healthy things don't help his depression.





	Let it Out

19:50 

Smith exhaled slowly, staring at his silver-rimmed watch so hard that his glare would surely mould the clock face to a time where he could leave. 

Not that this was anything particularly new. Friday evenings at the office were the shortest of his six day work week, and he (more often than not) had a habit of trying anything he could to prolong those shifts. 

The windows lining the production floor poured in red light from the sunset outside, and if Smith took off his reading glasses he would be able to see contrails painted between sparse, greying clouds, the rooftops of neighbouring skyscrapers, mountains further in the distance. The light bathed the entire room and its white walls and cloned desktops in bright, warm pink. The glare from his screen made him wince. 

As he had already finished with university and taking life head-on, he supposed it was quite an achievement to be facing a mid-life crisis at 23. Most people his age that he had known from school, still on social media that he didn't check enough, barely knew what they wanted to do in their life. He had reached his dream job, moved away from the States, had a car, had an apartment, and was heading to the finish line in the 'life is ultimately terrible’ realisation that took most people far into their lonely 50s to figure out. 

He did try to be optimistic; he supposed his salary was far from small, he had moved out from his parents house and they still spoke to him somewhat regularly, and he had a retirement plan with his job. He could afford a pet. He could afford a holiday. What wasn't there to like? He was widely considered a successful guy. 

He took off his glasses, placed them on his keyboard and sighed, letting his face fall into his hands. He really wish he had remembered his pills this morning - his mood would be fine if he had.

Luckily, his lamenting had pushed him past 18:00. Smith stood, quietly packed away his tupperware and laptop into his satchel, and turned to leave. 

It might have been the depression suffocating him, but the walk to the elevator felt like it took 20 minutes instead of 1. 

He pressed the button to call for the elevator, and let his head fall against the wall. He didn't understand why he was now coming to realise his utter sadness, when he had convinced himself this was the life for him - he had business degrees and suits and was raised to live the metropolitan life - this was his greatest achievement. So why wasn't he happy? Why wasn't he proud of himself? 

The elevator doors opened, and a low, familiar voice crackled from the lift. 

“Oh, Alex - are you going home?” 

Smith didn't even recognize it as a question. He just stared at the man's shirt, mouth dry and open, vision a little blurred. 

“Alex?”

The man held his hand against the door and stood out, waving the other hand in front of Smith's face. Their faces must have been about a foot apart, and yet his vision was still ever so slightly blurred.

“Smith.” His tone was growing sharp.

“Wh- Yeah.” Smith blinked, shaking his head and looking around quickly. “Yeah?” He let his focus fall on the familiar man before him, and a part of him crumbled moreso. 

Chris had known him for years, since leaving university. They had gone to separate campuses and met after graduating, when they were both bidding a student support group good luck for their futures. Chris - before starting his master's degrees - was lanky, had braces, dry skin and was a walking definition of anxiety. By the end of his four years, though, his acne had disappeared, he discovered yoga and the local gym, was fully medicated and was obsessed with self-improvement. That was when he had met Alex (who was unmedicated and still wore jeans that didn't fit well) and despite their differences, hadn't really parted since then. 

They never had a name for what they were, but they frequented each other's apartments and bedrooms and Smith helped Chris with his wallpapering. Of course, Smith was the one to run from it. 

A few years hadn't touched him, really. Mr. Trott, who worked in his own office, had a long face and a sharp jaw, soft smile. His eyes were coffee-brown, and he wore charcoal suits. His blazer was over his forearm, and his shoulders were square and lowered under his pressed shirt. His eyes softened, too, when he spoke. 

“I asked if you were going home. I can walk you if it's a tough day-” 

Smith offered a half smile. “I'll be okay, Chris, you know me.” 

The shorter man gave a knowing look. Yes, I know you, and I know you won't be okay. 

Smith had fled from whatever they had because Chris obviously cared more than he had to. He thought of himself as oil, and Chris as water. He talked about how good it would be if he stopped telling his GP that he was coping fine without Sertraline. He tried taking Smith out on walks, just to a shop or to look at the river. He suggested getting into sports. He ironed his clothes when he slept at his place. And it got to Smith - that he wasn't just some friend, and he was afraid of letting him down. It had been months since he had been back on Chris’ street, even if it was only five minutes away from his dark, ever-messy apartment. 

Chris gave another small smile, and stood up straight. “I'm sorry, if I scared you there. You looked out of place, is all, and I wouldn't want you to miss your chance to get in before the leave rush.” 

Smith nodded, shrugging at his satchel's strap sitting heavily on his shoulder, trying not to look away from the doors. Chris looked at him, quietly. 

The silence dragged on until they both landed at the ground floor, the elevator doors opening to the expansive lobby. The floor was pure white and tiled, and potted, huge plants were everywhere. The pink light from the setting sun was barely touching the walls - it was getting darker outside. 

The air felt thick. He barely noticed he hadn't started walking, but lucky for him, he had a 5’7 reminder placing a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“Smith, we're at the lobby now. Can you walk?” 

The taller blinked slowly, nodded shallowly. He felt guilty, or like a lying child trying to impress. Of course you can take the training wheels off of my bike, I won't fall. 

Chris waited, and Smith took a shaky step. He was proud of it, and so he took another and managed to stumble out of the elevator with Chris’ hand on his shoulder. He looked back at the shorter man, a kind of fake confidence smeared across his face. 

“I’m okay, really.” Smith tried to sound as collected as possible. 

“If you're sure.” Chris let his shoulders droop, ever so slightly, enough to make Smith fidget. “You looked like you tend to when you start dissociating, but I'll trust your judgement. Do you want someone to walk with, home? We're close by anyway.” 

Smith nodded, as much as he didn't want to. “Sure. Yeah.” 

Chris’ shoulders perked back up, and he let his hand slide down from Smith's shoulder to loosely grip his wrist, and tilted his head towards the exit. As they approached the door, the taller let his mind did what it did best; wander. 

He thought of how Chris offered to help him shave, once, when it was a bad day and he could barely cook for them both. He hadn't complained or called him lazy or shook his head, hadn't been at all condescending towards him. He had simply looked out clean clothes for him, washed Smith's hair in the sink and helped him gather the energy to bring his clippers to a beard that had taken advantage of all his time spent in bed to grow substantially. 

He looked down at Chris’ hand wrapped around his wrist, barely scraping his watch. He didn't want to speak too soon, but he was relieved that his friend wasn't battering him with questions about why they hadn't seen each other in so long. 

They both walked slowly along the street. The pavement was spilling with people heading home from their workdays, students in short skirts and button-ups going on night outs. 

Smith stared at them longingly. Oh, freedom. 

Chris had a spring in his step as he weaved them both through the crowds, still apparently not affected by the wind enough to want to put his jacket on. They were approaching the square; Chris would be heading left and Smith right. Oil and water. 

Smith was ready to turn down his street, bid his friend goodbye and thank him for his words, when Chris hooked his arm around Smith's bicep and tugged him back. Smith turned, frowning, almost frustrated but let it fall when Chris was simply smiling at him. That same, sane and content smile. 

He could easily tug himself out of that hold - He stood two feet over the other man and was two times stronger, but Chris had willpower on his side. 

“Mate- Chris, you said we were just walking home.” Smith tried not to sound too agitated. 

Chris sighed, arm still tight at Smith's elbow, an answer prepared. “To do what? Get into bed and sleep until your next shift on Tuesday? At least let me take an hour off of your sleep schedule.” 

In this light, his eyes were more chocolate, warm milk chocolate, than the usual black coffee. Smith frowned.

“Isolating yourself from the world won't do you any good. And I've seen you on the way to getting your freedom back, mate, you thrive in social situations. But even if you don't want to face crowds right now, or for the next month or year, you can always just have someone to be there with you.” 

Smith blinked at the speech, walking slightly behind, as Chris took his hand back to animate his words with little gestures. 

“If that's your mum, or your dad, or any old friends or co-workers or me, I'm sure no one would say no. But I know for a fact that I wouldn't give up on you. That doesn't mean that you're a project to me, or that I'll just be here to nurse you - I care about your well-being and you as a person. I want to help, Smith.” 

The words echoed in the taller man's head, all the while gaping. He didn’t know how to respond, nevermind how to fathom that Chris hadn't given up like he did on himself. 

They had both stopped walking, pedestrians moving on past them, not even paying them mind. Soft yellow lights emitted from street lamps above them, the poles covered with stickers, a lost person poster fluttering in the wind. Smith's curls blew in front of his face, yet didn't shift his gaze from Chris’ eyes. Chris’ deep, deep brown, caring eyes.

“You want to help?” Smith asked, quietly. 

“I do.” 

The taller squeezed his eyes shut, and just let his worries subside, if just for a moment. “Fine. Okay. Where are we going?” 

Chris smiled, again. 

 

“Come on. Just up here.” 

Smith tried to jog up the hill, just for the last stretch to catch up with his friend. The wind was blowing in his face, his ears were probably red with the cold and his stomach was dropping, but he kept going. By the time he had reached the top, Chris rested his hand on Smith's shoulder and smiled at him, proud. 

From the top of the hill, they could see the stars. The clouds had parted right there and then to show the tiny lights in the sky, and it was more than likely that at least a few of them were helicopters or planes. They could see miles of housing, busy rush-hour roads and motorways, over the river that ran through the city. There were trees and a bench on the hill, and it felt as though they were hundreds of miles from the bustle of the working world. It was peaceful. Smith's thighs burned from running and his breathing was loud and harsh, and it was all he could hear. 

“Nobody comes up here. There's nothing to do but sit and watch the water or the roads, and no one really cares for that sort of thing anymore. I like it, though. And it's quiet enough - you always said that sometimes you just wanted to scream.” Chris’ hair whipped out of his face in the wind. “You can, here. I won't pressure you. Can take as long as you need to.” 

Smith looked at him for a long moment as he tugged on his blazer and walked over to the bench, beside the lone tree. 

Smith looked at the river, with old boats tied to the banks and a wooden pier half-broken on the other side. The water was choppy from the wind. He took long breaths. And before he could convince himself otherwise, oh weak legs to stand on, Smith forced all power that left in his body, he looked down to the water, took a deep breath, and screamed. 

No words, no ciphered speech, just sound. Sound until his throat felt dry and his mind stopped attacking itself. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears started running down his cheeks. 

When he finished, Smith dropped to his knees, and let his head fall, chin jabbing into his tie's knot. After a long minute, he heard movement. 

“Done?” Chris called, walking towards him from the bench where his bag and phone still remained. Smith looked up as he approached, and found himself smiling. Sincerely, with tears in his eyes. 

“Yeah.”

“Did it help?”

Smith reached for Chris’ hand hesitantly, as the shorter kneeled beside him, then smiled, a small, small smile.

“Yeah, it did. I think I needed it.” 

“You did.” 

Chris’ thumb rubbed little circles on Smith's knuckles, and Smith let his head fall onto Chris’ shoulder.


End file.
